Did You Know… Kids In the 1970s Could Buy X-Ray Specs from the Back of a Comic?

 

“See-through clothes!” promised the ads in Whizzer and Chips, The Beano, and just about every comic a kid could get their hands on. Entirely untrue, of course.

 

If you grew up in the 1960s or 70s, you’ll remember that the back pages of children’s comics were filled with adverts for itching powder, magic tricks, prank gum, and rubber masks. But there was one that stood out, aimed firmly at childhood gullibility: X-Ray Specs.

To younger generations today, with smartphones and high-resolution everything, the idea may seem laughable. But in the pre-digital age, a time when TV shut down at night, and “special effects” meant a blue screen on Tomorrow’s World — the promise of being able to see through solid objects was nothing short of a miracle.

That is what the X-Ray specs promised us. It would give us X-ray vision.

The adverts didn’t even try to be subtle about it. The drawing usually featured a boy staring wide-eyed at a young woman, the dotted outline of her body revealed as if by magic. Very 1970s, inappropriate, and unrealistic, but we all wanted a pair.

Just imagine showing up at school being able to look through walls, desks, and…clothes. 

Who would dare turn up with X-Ray specs? Well, my mate Tony did. He had seen the ad in the back of Whizzer and Chips, or it might have been The Dandy. He saved up and sent off for a pair. I think they cost him three shillings, which was about fifteen new pence post decimilisation, including postage.

The specs themselves were made of cardboard, with red-and-white spiral lenses. Inside were thin bits of plastic film that created a double-image effect. When you looked at your hand, you’d see a faint shadow offset from the real thing. That shadow was supposed to represent the X-ray. In reality, it just looked like everything was slightly out of focus.

Even back then, paying three shillings for a flimsy pair of glasses that looked like they would last five minutes seemed a rip-off.

He then turned up at school, advertised the fact that he had bought a pair, and offered them to others, provided they were prepared to pay tuppence for five minutes.

I didn’t pay Tony, as I didn’t think they would work, but he did a roaring trade with the first year boys. I think he chose his market well, because they were easier to deal with if they wanted their money back. Whenever they complained that they couldn’t see through anything, Tony would simply say, “You are not wearing them right; time is up — no refunds.”

The older, bigger boys would not stand for that.

My school was a boys’ school; the girls were next door. Needless to say, some wanted to see what the girls would look like through the X-ray specs.

Or Miss Mullen, our very attractive English literature teacher.

Everyone ended up disappointed.

“It’s out of focus.” One boy complained.

“I think they were probably damaged in the post.” Tony said, counting all the money that he made.

Did it work?

Absolutely not. But there, again, it was never meant to. How the company who sold them got away with their advertisements is a testament to the time. Although I doubt anyone complained to them — after all, what would they say?

Did we convince ourselves it worked?

Sort of. Probably, although I doubted it right from the start. I mean, if they worked, everybody would be wearing them.

And they did look a little strange with those swirling eyes. Like something, you would see in an episode of The Avengers or The Champions.

As with many things from that era, half the appeal was in the anticipation. The weeks between posting the form and then the waiting. Tony built up the suspense. Finally, a mysterious brown envelope arrived with his name on it, filled with magical possibility. What if it really did work? What if, at the age of eleven, we had accidentally stumbled into a world of real-life superpowers?

Spoiler alert — we hadn’t.

Tony ended up disappointed, but there again, he made a profit on his purchase. Those tuppences from eager young schoolboys soon mounted up, later to be spent in the school tuck shop. He never gave refunds, and none of them complained to the teachers or parents.

He even told me that he sent the broken specs back to the company and got a refund, although I doubt that.

Those flimsy cardboard glasses, X-Ray specs that couldn’t x-ray anything, ridiculous though they were, belonged to an age when imagination ran wild. 

A time when believing the unbelievable was half the fun.

 

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